“No,” he replied.
“In my big scene with Croizette?”
“No.”
“Well then, read what I left out,” I insisted.
When he had read this he exclaimed:
“So much the better. It’s very dull, all that story, and quite useless. I understand the character without all that rigmarole and that romantic history.”
Later on, when I apologised to Dumas fils for the way in which I had cut down his play, he answered, “Oh, my dear child, when I write a play I think it is good, when I see it played I think it is stupid, and when any one tells it to me I think it is perfect, as the person always forgets half of it.”
The performances given by the Comédie Française drew a crowd nightly to the Gaiety Theatre, and I remained the favourite. I mention this now with pride, but without any vanity. I was very happy and very grateful for my success, but my comrades had a grudge against me on account of it, and hostilities began in an underhand, treacherous way.
Mr. Jarrett, my adviser and agent, had assured me that I should be able to sell a few of my works, either my sculpture or paintings. I had therefore taken with me six pieces of sculpture and ten pictures, and I had an exhibition of them in Piccadilly. I sent out invitations, about a hundred in all.
His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales let me know that he would come with the Princess of Wales. The English aristocracy and the celebrities of London came to the inauguration. I had only sent out a hundred invitations, but twelve hundred people arrived and were introduced to me. I was delighted, and enjoyed it all immensely.